The Army Mule, and Other War SketchesCastle, Henry A. (Henry Anson)
History
The Army Mule, and Other War Sketches
Castle, Henry A. (Henry Anson)
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865; United States. Army -- Military life
He was not built for a general range of cynosure business; homeliness
was his heritage from the day he was foaled. He was unpoetic as a miss
receiving her beau in the parlor with her two younger brothers sitting
in the seat of the scornful hard by. He was unartistic as a Montana
hurricane kite--an iron shutter with a tail made of log-chains. He
was unsymmetric as a court dwarf with scythe-snath spine and a dome on
his shoulder. Hence for the splendid immortality of sculpture he was
ludicrously inapt. And if painting deigned to give him grudged space
it was ever in the burlesque of cartoonage or the dim littleness of
background.
His lucky half-brother, the showy, exaggerated horse, in all classes,
from the pampered ex-trotter with his slim neck and his record, to the
bloated muldoon of the belt-line, jaded but defiant, was an easy
victor in the suit Neigh _versus_ Bray. To him might come sweet
visions of promotion in the life that is and artistic apotheosis in a
glad hereafter. But to the speechless, unapproachable Mule, with
periodical reactions in the hind leg, and hight merely "nigh" or "off"
in the vernacular, promotion never came. Cogitating to himself with
soulful grunts, he could only talk through his head-stall.
Even the sutler's horse, intoed, sway-backed and wheezy, who had
habitually worn a ragged calfskin over his rump as he stood on frosty
nights before the war, tied to a rail fence while his owner talked
politics in the village grocery, claimed superiority. The picturesque
talisman U. S. upon his shoulder was the only badge of honor permitted
to the Army Mule, save when the whip-lash had cut out a slice of his
skin as a souvenir. But even this significant lettering was often so
inexpertly executed as to serve no decorative purpose whatever. It was
infinitely less effective than a bran mash to poultice his internal
pains, or a roached mane to command external admiration. With one foot
over the trace and both eyes blinking, the last state of that Mule was
worse than the first. To him all alleged or attempted adornments were
superfluous and unsatisfying.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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